


Midnight Blues

by Moth1988



Category: Sam & Max (Comics)
Genre: Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Consent, Hand Jobs, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Lust, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Minor Injuries, Neck Kissing, Non-Graphic Violence, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Praise Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29138034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moth1988/pseuds/Moth1988
Summary: Looking for a distraction, Max picks a fight with a drunk for a little bit of self-indulgence.When he winds up back at the office with a very concerned Sam waiting up for him, he's at a loss as to how to explain himself.
Relationships: Max/Sam (Sam & Max)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 140





	Midnight Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you guys so much for your patience, and I am so sorry it's taken me this long to write something new. 
> 
> I've spent a lot of time editing and perfecting this one as best I can, and I really do hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Thank you so much again and if possible, please take a look at the ending notes! 
> 
> You guys are utterly amazing, thank you so, so much and I really hope you guys enjoy 💕

"So, this what you're into?" 

Back against the rough, cold wall of a moon lit alleyway, he bites back a shrill laugh, spitting out the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, so conveniently landing on the face of his perpetrator. 

"Heh, ya have an issue with that?" He chokes out, grin sharp and glinting in the dim and dying moonlight. Telling by the rough laugh he gets in return, sultry and somehow also disgusted, the answer's 'yes'. Still, the guy doesn't let go of his throat, barely level with him and just barely keeping him from hitting the concrete below. It's a wonder he hasn't passed out, yet, but telling by the spots clouding his vision; he ain't too far off.

"You're sick, kid." Another laugh, and he can't stop himself from sounding absolutely elated. He sounds downright psychotic, and can't blame the guy when a brief look of disconcertment crosses over his features. 

He's right-- it _is_ sick. The perp definitely hadn't signed up for this on the night he decided to stalk the alleys. Probably just looking to blow off some steam, and the two of them have that in common, if nothing else.

You could always tell what kind of man a guy was by how he spent his night, someone told him once. Probably his mother, but he definitely ain't keen on thinking about her right now. Either way, the guy was just _looking_ for trouble in a place like this; roaming the city streets just past 4 a.m with the shallow confidence only a drunkard could have. He was practically asking to pick a fight with his drunken slurring, insults thrown the lagomorph's way with words far too depraved to be repeated anywhere besides a dumpster alley. Telling by the sickly sweet smell of rum on his breath, it probably ain't the first night he's ended up out on the streets like this.

Max couldn't say he was any different, though, just sober. 

"You just now figurin' that out?" He can't make out much of him in the dark, but telling by the hand around his throat keeping him several feel off the ground, he's gotta be at _least_ taller than 3 feet, though that ain't much of a feat in itself. 

He could just barely make out the profile of your typical average joe, ruffled suit and tie adding a deeply troubling thrum of pleasure to the whole affair. The man ain't anything special, the scent of cheap cologne stinging his nose and baggy suit just telling of his unremarkableness. Probably had a bad day at work, or maybe he was just some sad sap down on his luck, driven past his limits by booze and a lagomorph with just a few too many smart words. 

"You're _pathetic_ , pal." 

The quip gets him another punch to the jaw, and he's far past the point of pretending like he doesn't enjoy it. 

With every sock to the face, dawn grows closer and closer, the face infront of him just barely visible through the dying moonlight. He certainly doesn't know the guy, but the familiar silhouette of a man in uniform sends a shiver through him. Tie loose and collar the same, one or two buttons undone or broken from the top and sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His grey jacket's hanging off of his shoulder's; dirty and disheveled just about the name of the man. He's just some guy; a random, drunken bum off the streets, hair graying and eyes tired and so senselessly _angry_. There's hundreds like 'em, sure, but he can almost pretend it's someone else beating him silly, like it actually means something. 

The man's scowling at him in the dark, disgust pinching his aged features when his gaze rakes over him. Or, at least he thinks it's disgust-- it's hard to tell too clearly in the dark. 

It's obvious he's enjoying himself as the dull ache of bruises thrums across his skin, the taste of the blood trickling from his nose only adding to the ache between his legs, strained against his stomach as he grows humiliatingly close. 

He's harder than he's been in weeks, burning flush crossing his face and worsening with every hit of the man's fists. Labored breaths come out in weak little moans, muffled little curses he spits out in between the blows, lost to the muggy summer air.

If anyone else happened to be around, they'd definitely have another picture in mind than just some guy getting his ass handed to him, and he can't say he'd blame their presumptuousness. It looked like an affair gone horribly array, what with the pleased little whimpers echoing off the walls, prick bare and weeping against his stomach. 

Maybe that's why the guy hits him again, harder this time around. He'd probably be pretty pissed, too, if the guy he was trying to beat was getting off on it. 

"What, pal? Scared your wife 'll hear ya? Think you're fuckin' some _broad_?" He laughs, voice hoarse. "Like she doesn't already know... she that dense?" 

Another punch, and he lets out a shameless and breathy moan, putting on a real show, if not just to fluster the guy some more. Obviously hit a chord there, too, as the man falls quiet for a moment or two. Maybe he was right, though it ain't hard to tell the guy's a real piece of work just from the stench of alcohol alone. If the prick even _had_ a wife, she'd probably left with even the hope of a better man in mind. 

What could he say, he could read him like a book. Maybe that's why he'd been in the business he had for so long. 

Or maybe it was his tolerance for pain and the reoccurring violence that factored in to such a career. Freelance police work ain't for the faint hearted, after all, but who's to say? 

"I bet ya like me," The lagomorph taunts after a moment too long of terse silence. He draws in shaking breaths, gasps into aching lungs to clear the worst of the stars from his vision. "Think I'm pretty, don't ya?" 

He expects another smack, but instead he gets an almost teasing chuckle, and he feels a thumb brushing along his jaw line. " _Careful_ , little bunny," The man chides, tone edging near playful. Like he's mocking him, Max thinks with disdain.

What a _crock_.

"I think you're sniffin' where ya shouldn't be." The hand trails down towards his neck, ghosting touch nothing like the rigid grip his other hand has around his throat.

Somehow, he finds _that_ more insufferable. 

He shivers with disgust when the stranger's hand starts to trail towards his stomach, dangerously close to the twitching ache between his legs.

Alright, he's had _more_ than enough fun.

Suddenly, the man's dropping him to the ground when he receives a harsh kick to the groin, and Max is drawing his gun before the guy even has a chance to speak. " _Okay_ ," The lagomorph laughs, bitterness dripping from his tone. "Now you're just making it weird." He says, taking solace in the nervous gulp he gets in response. "Ya kiss your mother with that mouth? Goin' around callin' people names like _that_... now you're just _askin_ ' for a bullet t' the brain." 

"Y-you're the one who came on to me! Fuckin' _tease_ \--" He spits, rushing to defend his obviously very fragile ego. "You ain't my type, anyhow! I ain't a fag." He spits out the word like it's burned him, and with a grin, Max is pressing the barrel of the gun against the man's forehead. 

" _Sure_ , pal," He drawls. "Keep tellin' yourself that. Like I'd ever be into a pathetic sap like _you_." 

The faceless man scrambles backwards and away from him, cursing under his breath. "Listen... guess I misread some signals, yeah?" He stammers. "J-just, lemme go and you'll never see me again, ya dig? It was an honest mistake." 

The man's just about the definition of pathetic, and Max has half a mind to prove it. 

Unfortunately, his partner's pesky moral code's starting to rub off on him. 

He gestures with the barrel of the luger towards the night, letting the guy scramble helplessly to his feet without the instant threat of being shot. 

"Fine. Get outta here, and I better never see your ugly mug again," He mocks, honey dripping sweet from biting words. "Ya _dig_?" 

The man nods, scrambling onto his feet and stumbling away with a barely audible; "Fuckin' crazy bird." muttered under his breath as he disappears from sight, leaving Max to yell after him. 

_"I'm a rabbit, ya asshole!"_

* * *

The early hours of a modest four a.m. chills the cool, stuffy morning air. It wakes him up, easy; though he doesn't doubt that the adrenaline setting in could do that on it's own. His fur bristles as the pain of dark and deep bruises ebb into nothing more than a minor inconvenience with every step closer to their office, the scent of brisk, morning air mingling with the metallic scent of blood. 

Their dingy old couch oughta sound awfully appealing right about now, but somehow he still finds himself wide awake, inevitable exhaustion held off by endorphins and dopamine.

It's refreshing; the way the chilly, late-summer air brushes past his fur like a disgruntled city citizen. Luckily enough, the roads are pretty much empty this early in the morning, and the hushed sounds of a waking city remain the only presence as he walks home. 

It's become a routine; sneaking out a couple times a week, covering up the bruises and collateral damage with half-assed makeup and excusing the rest to lack of sleep. 

After all; Sam ain't an idiot, but he sure as hell is trusting. 

He can't say when he first started doing this, sneaking out at ungodly hours of the night just to satisfy the persistent little itch and take his mind off of things, waiting until just the right opportunity to slip out and roam the streets under the cover of early dawn.

The lagomorph tells himself it ain't sick to indulge a little, blushing at the memory alone of unfamiliar and angry hands leaving their mark after another alley fight. The phantom feeling of hands grabbing onto his throat and cutting off his airflow still ghosts atop his skin when he focuses on the pain, but he can't say it's a feeling he really minds. 

It's pretty damn addictive, like some black market drug he's got to roam the streets to find, pissing off just the right person in order to get it. Both ain't hard to come by in a town like this one, especially not when he's lived in the city long enough to know just where he's got to go to find it.

It's _good_ , good enough for him to stop fantasizing until the next time he can slip out and get his fix. Just like a drug, he thinks, a bittersweet thing that's got him crawling back for more each time. The kind of thing he absolutely aches without, burning and smoldering from the inside out. Anything to feel _that_ good without some sort of hook, some sort of commitment or obligation to keep him coming back for anything but the promise of gratification and the sad, dwindling hope that maybe he'll stop fantasizing about his best friend. 

But it's never enough, and he never does, even if the nameless hands on him have him cumming so hard he can barely remember his own name. 

God, okay, it's _definitely_ sick. 

Still, he can't stop thinking about the stranger's hands grabbing at his throat, pressing hard enough that he sees stars and keeping it that way when he's socked straight in the face. Doesn't matter who the guy was, it had been way too dark out to make him out, anyways. At least, not well enough to recognize him on the streets in the morning. Just how he liked it. Besides, the poor bastard didn't really matter, it could be anyone, as long as they beat him bad enough, Max was satisfied.

It wasn't hard to find them, wandering the city streets after midnight to clear his head, throwing about a few careless words and hoping he'd strike the right chord to stir a fight. And a good one, too, one fueled by enough anger and resentment that he really felt it in the morning. 

Usually a quip or two about their wife and the broad's certain, albeit assumed, dissatisfaction was enough to pull 'em in, acting like he wasn't getting off on the inevitable pain of a punch to the face. 

This last guy was almost _too_ easy to rile up, a few unfortunately timed comments being enough to start a fight. 

Was it dangerous? Sure; who's to say he wouldn't piss off the wrong guy and get shanked or shot, but the risk only added to the thrill of the whole thing. After all, he could take just about any of them if he really wanted to. It was worth it, especially so if that meant Sam didn't have to find out about this particular vice of his.

It isn't long before he arrives back home, hesitating at the door when he catches a glimpse of himself in the window's reflection and cringing inwardly at the damage.

Jesus, guy really did a number on him. 

Already thinking about the kind of cosmetic tricks he's going to have to pull to cover this one up, he slowly eases the door open and winces at the loud creak it emits in return. 

It's still dark, so dark that he almost doesn't notice his friend pacing the floors. 

Shit.

* * *

"Max?" A familiar voice mutters, rough with sleep as lights flicker on to reveal a thoroughly beaten lagomorph. "What in the hell happened to ya?"

For a moment or two, he just stands still in the doorway, hoping in vain that maybe Sam will somehow just forget he's there if he just doesn't move. Unfortunately, life doesn't work like it does in the movies, and he isn't so lucky. The worried stare of his best friend bores straight through him, piercing through the dimly lit room and right into his soul. "I uh," He swallows down the lingering taste of metal on his tongue, feeling his mouth go dry. "It ain't as bad as it looks, Sam," He starts off immediately, seeing the look on Sam's face. "Just a--"

"Just _what_ , Max?" He cuts him off, but Max doesn't falter.

"Sam, it ain't a big deal..." He starts, sniffling and cringing inwardly at the sharp smell of blood he wipes away on back of his hand. "I'm _fine_! Don't look at me like that." 

"This ain't the first time you've gone out like this, is it?" Sam obviously tries to keep his tone quiet and steady, but knowing him damn well better than anyone else out there, the conflicted look on his pretty face gives him away. Gosh, not like now's the time for it... but the guy looks awfully pretty when he's pissed off. Only a guy like him could look so sweet being as angry as he is, and it takes a whole lot in him to push down the warmth budding in his stomach to focus on the conversation at hand.

Still, the quiet worry in Sam's voice is making his stomach hurt. 

"How'd ya know?" He attempts to swallow down the shake in his voice, blaming it on the lingering pain rather than the sad look on his Sam's face. He always said the guy looked like a sad puppy whenever he was upset, and that rings truer than ever.

He chuckles, arms crossed over his chest like a disappointed parent who caught their teenager sneaking out past curfew. "You act like we haven't been friends for ages. Ain't hard to tell when you're being suspicious."

"Listen, Sam, ya don't gotta worry about it. Just a scrap, y'know? Nothin' to worry about, I get into fights all the time."

His partner sighs. "Not at four in the morning. Somethin' ain't right, Max. It ain't hard to tell. You sneak out at 4 a.m. and ya come back home like ya..." He trails off, like he's trying to find the words to say it softly, but finding himself failing miserably. "Like ya found the wrong kinda attention." 

Max's expression falls to confusion, heart dropping straight to his stomach. He's got a vague idea of what Sam's implying, and it can't be good. "Wrong kinda...? What're you suggestin', Sam?" He can feel himself blanch at the implication alone.

"Goin' out _this_ late? In _this_ city? Can't lead t' anything good." He sighs, and suddenly it's hard to look him in the eyes, the exact sort of shame he's been trying to avoid finding it's place deep in his gut.

"I didn't think ya were that desperate for uh," Sam hesitates, the word on the tip of his tongue no doubt a shameful one. "For a dame's _attention_ , y'know? I get it, I ain't got any place to judge ya, but it's almost like you're _lookin_ ' for trouble. There's definitely safer ways t' go about it than roaming the streets of New York at midnight. I mean, what were ya thinkin', Max?" 

The silence that falls is tense, and after an agonizing pause, he lets out a little giggle, trailing off into something of a cackle.

He can't be _serious_ , right?

"A _dame_ , Sam? You think I'm goin' out to see some hustler? Gosh, thought you knew me better than _that_." He laughs. 

"Maybe I don't, then, Max."

The hurt in Sam's voice stops his giggling, the seriousness of the situation he's in suddenly setting in and rendering him awkward and almost _nervous_ with the scolding look Sam's giving him, burning under his gaze like the white-hot light of an interrogation.

"Look, I..." He starts, almost like a scolded child. Because suddenly the idea of brushing this whole thing off doesn't seem particularly honorable. He's never been a man of honor, but the look on his friend's face makes him feel even worse than the burgeoning pit of shame leaving a gaping hole in his stomach. Sam just looks so sad, big brown eyes rendering Max helplessly soft and gooey on the inside. 

Damn Sam and his infectious ' _morality_ ' bullshit.

"It ain't what it seems, alright?" He starts, for the first time in a long time feeling almost timid. "Don't look at me like that." He swallows down the usual instinct of defense, playing with his hands and trying to keep the burn of shame from rushing straight to his pale face. He'd always been good at hiding how he feels; it's just in his nature, but the flush that falls over his face always seems to give him away. 

God, no one but Sam could have this kind of affect on him. Shame? He doesn't know the definition of the word, never _did_ until Sam came into his life with his sweet words and puppy-dog eyes, striking a chord somewhere deep and foreign within him. It's terrifying, but he can't find it in him to hate the feeling of it.

And it ain't worth it to ruin that; even if the only thing actually there between them is just a fickle fantasty of someone hopelessly in love with pure naivety incarnate.

"Then what is it?"

The look on Sam's face is what makes him cave, softened and sad, like he's more hurt by Max not telling him the truth than he is angry at the lie. "I just wanted to let off some steam," He huffs, arms crossed over his chest in defense. "Found some guy willin' to fight and he just... caught me off-guard a couple times, alright?" 

Sam doesn't look too convinced. "Max, you're tellin' me this guy got the upper hand in a scrap against you? I dunno if I can believe that."

"Well, gee, I'm _flattered_ , Sam, but really, that's what happened." 

"You're lying. I ain't an idiot, Max."

"What's so hard to believe about it?"

There's a lasting pause before Sam finally speaks again. "I think you're hidin' something."

"I don't owe you an explanation, Sam," He says with as much venom as he can muster. "I'm free t' do whatever I like."

"Not when you're riskin' yourself gettin' imprisoned, Max."

He scoffs. "It's always about the damn _law_ , ain't it? Like it's the only thing that matters. When have we ever followed the law, Sam?" 

"It _matters_ when you're beatin' up some poor sap wanderin' the streets at night. It matters when you're comin' home at 4 in the morning practically at death's door with a bullshit explanation."

"He practically _asked_ for it, Sam! He got somethin' outta it, too, I didn't just attack some random guy." 

"Can ya at least tell me why you're pickin' fights? I'm just," He sighs, one big paw scrubbing tiredly at his face. "I'm worried about ya. Ya look like hell, little buddy." 

Max doesn't respond, and Sam kneels down to level with him. He can't quite look him in the eye, face feeling all too hot with how close he is to him right now, noses practically touching.

The lagomorph raises a hand to fiddle with his twitching ears, a familiar nervous tick, but Sam grabs ahold of his wrist and he freezes up completely.

He gulps, firm but gentle grasp turning his face beet red. 

It's obviously that he ain't trying to be rough, just grab his attention, but that doesn't keep his stomach from shifting almost violently. 

"Max?" He starts softly. "Just... tell me what's goin' on here. _Please_."

The lagomorph can't seem to choke out a response, eyes wide and trained on the paw holding onto his wrist, swallowing thickly and trying to come up with something to say. "You're gonna hate me." He giggles nervously, but there's a strain in his voice. Because it's true, and because Sam has every right to hate him after thinking about him the way he does. 

"Nothin' you could do could make me hate you. Don't think I could if I _tried_. Just," Sam sighs, letting go of his wrist like he forgot he was holding it. "Tell me what's goin' on?"

What's he got left to lose, right? After all, he's practically been caught red-handed. There's no point in denying it anymore.

"What do you want to know?" 

Another sigh, and Sam's easing himself up and off of the ground. "Well, for starter's; what happened tonight?"

Instinctually, he rushes to lie, but bites his tongue. He wouldn't consider himself _dishonest_ , per say, not to Sam. Besides, he refuses to be like one of those shameful bums they question so frequently, sweating under the striking lights of an interrogation.

"I got into a scrap with some drunk. Wasn't lying when I said that." 

Sam looks him over, up-and-down in a way that would probably be considered ' _intimidating_ ' if he wasn't so hopelessly head-over-heels for the guy. "I've never seen ya so beat-up before. He got _that_ many hits on you?"

"I let him." It slips out before he can find the words to soften it, and Sam almost looks like he doesn't believe him. Almost.

"You... you _let_ _him_?" 

Maybe it's the exhaustion that does it, but the rabbit slumps to the floor, legs crossed over one another and hands in his lap. "Yeah."

"Why would ya do that?" Max swears Sam's voice goes up at least one octave, steely appearance gone and subdued panic setting in. It ain't hard to read him, not when he's known him for so long. With an inward cringe, he realizes he's probably the same. "Max, I mean-- Jesus _Christ_... is this some form of self-harm?"

"What?" He practically yelps, jumping to his feet to take a few hesitant steps towards him. Of all the assumptions to make; Sam always did have a bad habit of jumping to the worst possible ones. He reaches a hand out to grab him, maybe yank him down to his level and get it through to him that _no_ , that ain't the _point_ , but his own nerves get the better of him and he lowers it down as he steps closer across the room. "No, no. _Shit_ , Sam, it ain't like that--"

"You did this on _purpose_?"

His voice shakes, and something like that is rare. It's very quickly setting in how badly he's fucked up, especially with his horrible choice of wording. 

"It's fucked up, but not like _that_." He attempts to explain. "It... it doesn't _hurt_ , per say. I ain't doin' this to hurt myself, Sammy."

Sam doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't turn away from him like he could. 

"You don't believe me?"

The detective doesn't say a word, but that's telling enough in it's own right.

With a small huff, he's grabbing onto one of Sam's hands. It's a long shot, sure, but anything to wipe that sad puppy-dog look off of Sam's face. "Touch me." 

A choked sound makes it's way out of him. " _What_?"

"Not like that, Sam. _Christ_ , just..." Sam allows his hand to go limp, letting his smaller partner hold it to his cheek and the worst of the damage. He shivers when the warm paw rests on his face, wide eyes watching him closely as a stray thumb wanders across the laceration with the precision only a detective like him could have.

It really ain't too bad, he's certainly had worse. The damage just stands out amongst the rest of him, so pale that even the slightest amount of blood looks like the end of the world. He can hear himself wince, sucking in air through his teeth. But it doesn't hurt, not really. ' _Hurt_ ' just ain't the right word for how it feels.

"You said it doesn't hurt?" Sam's voice, still rough from sleep, breaks the silence. He shakes his head, small hand still laying atop Sam's as he keeps it firm enough to really feel. Sam's too careful to do it himself. Still, his partner doesn't pull away, only curiously thumbs at the dark splotches. "What's it feel like, then?" 

His voice holds no accusation, nothing other than soft worry and curiosity when he asks him, genuineness thick in his words. 

The lagomorph feels his knees go weak, and it takes everything in him, along with the gentle support of Sam's palm, not to fall to his knees. He keeps himself upright, but his ears droop towards his hips in a way he can't exactly control. Inwardly, he blames it on exhaustion his body must be suffering through.

"Good."

He can feel Sam tense up a bit, and he's half afraid that he'll pull away. But he doesn't, he just strokes steadily and slowly at his face, watching even as the other shuts his eyes and leans into the feeling. 

It's heaven, practically everything he's ever dreamed of, and keeping himself composed is just about the hardest thing he's ever had to do. How could he become so _soft_? Practically melting underneath the slightest touch. He supposes Sam just happens to have that uncanny affect on people.

"Yeah?" His partner's voice is hushed, barely a murmur amongst the constant background haze of city traffic. The streets are quiet this morning, and yet with every beat of silence, his own thudding heart finds itself in sync with the cars and bustle of a city that truly _never_ sleeps.

He feels his mouth go dry, lungs empty and desperate for air when he holds his breath, the rough and calloused pad of his partner's thumb tracing over the cut on his lip with steady care, like he's trying to be gentle about it.

Maybe he's pouring more meaning into it than it has; Sam's always been so keen on affection, worried and caring paws clumsy and always rushing to patch him up after a scrap. No matter how minor, Sam never could stand to see him hurt. Maybe that's why he'd looked so worried when Max stumbled through the doors no more than an hour ago, so hurt when he thought that maybe he'd done it to himself. 

But somehow, the hand roaming up his back doesn't feel so strictly _innocent_. 

It rests at the curve of his spine, brushing over purplish spots born from him hitting the concrete one too many times. His hands are so gentle, too; and there's nothing grasping and pulling at him like he owed them something. He's not sure whether to laugh or to cry at the gentle feeling, so he does neither, swallowing hard and staying quiet. He's still shivering, and only in the beat of silence does he realizes he's holding tight onto Sam's arm, short pin-pricks of barely-there claws digging into his coat. His breaths are shaky, deep and more quiet gasps than anything else. _Audible_ , he knows. Still, he hopes despite everything that Sam can't see straight through him and his pitiful attempt at self-composure.

Sam's hand slowly moves upwards to run his thumb over his cheek, just underneath his busted eye with a touch so gentle he can hardly feel it past it's brief sting. He breaths in deep, holding it and fluttering his eyes shut again, hoping to focus on the darkness behind them and not the knot tightening in his stomach. "You're shakin', doll." His partner says, as natural as ever. "You sure I'm not hurtin' you?"

"Positive." 

He hears, moreso _feels_ , the deep rumbling of a laugh. "Alright, I trust ya." Another beat of quiet, though the other endures it. He's grateful for that, if nothing else, because God knows he couldn't speak anything halfway coherent even if he wanted to. "So what's the catch?" 

He doesn't want to, but he opens his eyes to look at him. "Hmm?" He hums, only halfway awake.

"If you're goin' out to get beaten bloody, with no real intent of gettin' badly hurt, I mean... what's the catch?"

He huffs, but doesn't pull away from the hand still petting at his cheek. The warm touch is nice, the ache of the bruises only a distant hum. " _You're_ the detective, Sam. You figure it out."

Sam ain't stupid; so maybe that's just enough of a confession right there. He certainly ain't denying the obvious anymore, and frankly; he's dug himself too deep now. 

"So, uh, for th' sake of hypotheticals... what's it do t' you if I do somethin' like this?" Sam draws one thumb underneath his blackened eye, just barely pressing down onto the bruise, but applying enough pressure that he instinctively flinches. 

" _Ahh_...!" He yelps, biting back a whimper. "C-c'mon, you really gotta warn a guy before ya do somethin' like that. What're ya tryin' to do here?"

"Holy crap, you weren't kiddin'." Sam murmurs in stifled disbelief. Judgement is lacking in his almost awed tone, cradling Max's face gently and almost subconsciously soothing at the spot afterwards. 

"I told ya I didn't do this for the sake of self-mutilation, Sam. What kinda sicko do ya take me for?" He attempts to sound casual, but he finds that's woefully hard to do when he's practically shaking, blushing so bad he swears he's probably more pink in the face than he is white.

"So it's," He watches Sam swallow hard, flustering under his slow-blinking gaze. "The pain of it, huh? It uh..."

"The pain that gets me off? Yeah, exactly. Now you're gettin' it." 

Sam just hums, and Max fully expects him to maybe yank his hand away in disgust, but he doesn't. 

The detective's hand lingers down to his neck, slightly tilting his jaw up to get a better look. The pinkish purple contusions litter near his throat, and Sam watches the movement of his throat as he swallows hard. "Jesus, pal. He must've really done a number on ya, huh?" He murmurs, fingers just barely brushing over the bruises. 

They're still sensitive, standing out easy against pale fur and aching when Sam presses the pad of his thumb against the spot. " _Saaam_ ," He whines, grabbing onto his forearm with pricking claws, tight as he can and hoping he gets the message. There's no way in Hell that he doesn't know what he's doing.

The hand stills, ghosting over the worst of the bruises. "You want me to stop?"

" _God_ , _no_."

A chuckle, equally as warm as the paw on his throat, rings out. "Okay, good. Now how 'bout you hop up on the desk so ya don't fall over, 'kay? Swear I've never seen ya shake so bad in my life." 

He nods, mouth dry and pulse racing. He tries not to show it on his face when he almost yelps, as Sam takes ahold of his hand and keeps him steady when he hops onto the desk. His hands hold onto Max's hips for a moment or two, assuring he's stable as he shifts his weight and tries to keep his legs together and drawn up to his chest. After all, he ain't _easy_ , and he ain't going to give himself up after a few spare touches alone. No matter how good it feels, nor how bad he wants it.

He definitely feels like this has got to be some sort of sexually frustrated mirage, a dream fueled by pure, desperate lust. But you can't feel in dreams, right? And he's certainly feeling it _now_.

He can't think straight, can't even comprehend the way Sam's looking at him right now, easy grin spread over his handsome face and making him dizzy.

"Good. Just relax, doll." Sam leans in close to nuzzle at a dark spot under his jaw, pressing his lips against the lagomorph's racing pulse and lingering there.

" _Haaah_ ," He whimpers, hips wiggling against the cool wood of the age-old desk.

"That feel good?"

The hand wraps around his throat, tightening just enough that he sees stars. "Yes, _yes_ , fuck."

"Language, Max. Just stay still." He instructs, natural authority in his voice that Max would usually spit at in retaliation. But Sam's always had an uncanny ability to render him helpless like no one else in their right mind would even dare to try. 

"'Kay."

He yelps when he feels something warm and wet on his neck, jumping in surprise but relaxing when he realizes just what his friend's doing. It's almost cute, grooming him in a way that he can't find it in himself to consider innocent, considering their unique circumstances. He can't keep himself from squirming, whining under his breath when his friend's tongue starts to lap at the wounds with careful diligence. 

Can't say he was really expecting _that_ , but he's certainly not complaining.

He's horrifically gentle, and when his tongue ghosts over his pulse point, the smaller lets out another shrill yelp.

Maybe it's sick to think it; but with one wrong move, he'd be a goner. Sam could do him in right here and now if he really wanted to, and he can't say he'd complain. The thought alone has him groaning under his breath, holding on tighter to Sam's coat and wondering if one could die from pure elation alone. 

When his tongue presses hot against his pulse again, he certainly ain't quiet _anymore_ , finding it difficult when he's already hard enough to ache. He's always been kind of sensitive, and shit if it ain't apparent now. "Sam, _fuck_ ," He shifts his thighs together with another quiet whimper, desperate for any sort of relief and finding it to be cruelly lacking. 

"You doin' okay?" Sam asks, soft murmur pressed against his pulse when he kisses at the spot. 

"Y-yeah, just uh... intense y'know? Don't stop, though."

His tongue almost feels cool when ghosting over his heated and abused skin. It's like he's a goddamn natural or something, holding Max still when he squirms and almost dutifully running his tongue over the dark splotches. The stranger's fingertips are still indented in his skin, leaving only a soft ache and discoloration in their wake. They still sting a little bit, but it's hard to focus on the pain with his best friend's tongue running over them.

"You're an angel, little buddy." Another soft kiss is pressed to his jaw. "You're doin' so good." 

"I wouldn't say _that_ , Sam." He giggles. "But I'll do anythin' to keep that pretty mouth of yours movin'."

Sam pulls away for a second, blinking slow at him with lidded eyes and tongue lolling out of his mouth. "Pretty?"

The lagomorph can't help but giggle, taking his dopey face in his hands with a grin. "Yeah, ' _pretty_ '." He looks over that pretty face, stomach fluttering in a way he's adamant to deny. "Can I kiss you?"

His partner's eyes widen, smile stretching wider. "Yeah," He smiles again. " _Yeah_."

And he does, grinning helplessly all the while. He holds his face in his hands, grasping at his fur.

Briefly, he wonders how exactly Sam's such a damn good kisser. His lips fall in sync with his own, rough and warm, hands gripping his hips so hard he wonders if it'll bruise and hoping silently that it will. 

Finally, he pulls away, lazy smile across his pretty face. "You're real good at that, Sam. Ya have practice?"

His partner just laughs. "Not that I can recall."

The smaller of the two fidgets, shifting his thighs together from his place on top the desk. "Well, uh," It's real hard to keep still, especially when Sam leans in close to kiss his neck again, tending to the other side. " _Ah_!" He strays down towards his shoulder, licking at the stray bruises and nibbling near his collarbone with playful nips. "K-keep goin'."

His awfully skilled mouth keeps itself busy, tending to the various spots with a silky tongue and strong hands keeping him still. 

It's all too much in the best kind of way, but he swears he's going to lose it if he doesn't get some kind of relief soon. 

He's far past the point of shame, stomach fluttering when he finally touches himself. Wrapping a hand around himself, it's all he can do not to cry out, biting at his lip to keep quiet and whimpering at the feeling. 

Sam doesn't seem to mind, as a purring laugh vibrates against his throat. "Oh, come _on_ , now." He utters, playful mock sweetening his tone, nipping at a particularly sensitive spot on his neck, kissing it sweetly as his hands roam up his sides. "You _that_ desperate, doll?" 

He takes in a sharp breath, squirming under his touch and nodding in agreement. He lets out another whine, stroking himself in time with the little shuffling of his hips he can't quite control. "God, _yes_." He bucks into his own hand, the warmth prickling his skin near unbearable.

Sam presses a smile into the crook of his neck, nuzzling at the spot before parting from him.

Gosh, way to give a guy performance anxiety.

His gaze is so mortifyingly sweet, like he's seeing the show of a lifetime play out infront of him. Max tries not to let his nerves get the best of him, spreading his legs further apart to give Sam a better view and flushing so hard that he has to look away from him. He leans back on one free hand, whining under his breath when Sam's hands trail up-and-down his sides. "You're _amazin_ ', doll." He chuckles. "Could probably be in the movies if you wanted." 

He giggles, trying to be as cocky as can be, but feeling the way his face turns pink, practically blistering under Sam's gaze. "What, like a porno? Not really my kinda film, Sam." 

"What I was _tryna_ say is that you're pretty. Real good at puttin' on a show, too." 

Gulping down the persistent dryness in his mouth, he glances down to the desk. "Awh, _geez_ , Sam. Way t' make a guy blush." 

His partner leans forward to kiss him again, brisk and all the more flustering. He whines against his lips, hands busy and hoping that he somehow gets the message that he wants him so bad that it hurts. He picks up the pace of his hand, stuttering his hips and moaning Sam's name with the conviction of someone who's done it a hundred times before. 

Sam breaks away from him to breathe, before kissing bittersweetly at his cheek and wandering down his neck once more, bringing soft attention to the worst of the bruises. 

God, he's so close but it's not _enough_. 

With a shameless, begging whine, he's grabbing onto one of Sam's stationary hands and whimpering a litany of " _please, fuck please, please_ ," and hoping Sam takes some pity on him and his sorry state. 

Another small chuckle is pressed against his neck. "You got it, pal. But I've gotta admit... I've never done somethin' like this before." 

"'S fine," He murmurs, looping one arm around Sam's neck and shifting to press himself closer. "You're doin' great." 

Fuck, it's so _much_. Feels like heaven, and he lets out a shrill groan as Sam's hand replaces his own. "This okay?" He asks, and Max's never heard him sound so nervous. It's adorable, and with another giggle, he presses a chaste kiss to Sam's cheek.

"It's _perfect_ , you're doin' _so_ good." He gasps out, and he swears he hears a little restrained cry. 

"G-glad ya think so." 

Max leans back on both hands to look at him with a wide grin. "Awh, _Sam_! Ya like that?" He pats at his head. "Good boy." He purrs, and hears that sweet little whimper again. Hearing the big guy whimper for him is definitely a first, and he can't help but scratch behind his ears and watch as the poor guy bites back another groan. 

"Ahh, Max, _c'mon_. Quite teasin' me here, would ya?"

With a snicker, he strokes a hand across his cheek. "I can't help it, Sam! You just look so cute when you're flustered." 

"Yeah?" His partner mutters, and with a start, he feels his tail being squeezed. "So do you." 

He jumps, crying out and quickly muffling it with his free hand. He swears he blacks out for a moment, slamming his thighs shut and rutting against Sam's stationary paw. "Y-You are _so_ lucky you're pretty."

The guy smiles at him, thumbing at the fluffy ball and watching him squirm. "Awh, how sweet, lil' pal." 

He groans, pulling his legs wider apart and watching closely as Sam starts to stroke him. " _Sweet_?" He laughs. "Think you've got th' wrong guy, Sam."

Before he can say anything more, Sam's kissing him again, quickening the pace of his skilled hand and making him see stars.

Max groans against his lips, rocking his hips to push himself into the warm hand with desperate frenzy.

And he's so close, pushed to his peak faster than he's ever been. 

" _Please_ , I--" He gasps against warm, rough lips. "I'm _so_ close, I..." 

The words slip out without warning, against his own persistent will as Sam holds him tight and close. 

They slip out of his preoccupied mouth as the growing, blistering knot in his stomach becomes almost unbearable, burning and insatiable. 

_"I love you."_

* * *

He wakes up around dawn, and ' _aching_ ' is a cruel understatement. 

The sky above him is the first thing he sees, dim and just barely turning to the morning. 

The lagomorph sits up, rubbing at a throbbing skull and briefly wondering how in the Hell he got here. 

Once his vision clears, he stands up on wobbly legs, supporting his weight on the cracked brick of the wall closest to him, blinking away stars and the overall sense of disorientation.

It doesn't take him long to notice just how weird he feels, drained moreso than the usual after a fight. He puts a hand to his stomach, cramping and all-around warm. Actually, his whole body's warm; by all accounts he oughta be shivering in the morning air, but he's practically radiating heat. Another hand falls to his cheek, wincing at the dull pain and feeling the haze of a pinkish flush beneath bloody and purple discoloration.

So it was a dream. A horribly _realistic_ dream.

_Fuck_... that's embarrassing. He's real lucky that no one happened to be around when he passed out.

With bleary vision, he notices that he's got to be at least half a mile or so away from the alley he'd been in before.

At least he made it a little ways away before passing out, enough of a ways to be out of the public eye, at least. 

Actually, he ain't too sure of _where_ he is; some sidewalk path on the other side of town. He can't be too far from the office, seeing as he hadn't made it very far from the place he'd met the gross, perverted old guy beforehand, and that had only been a few miles off from the place. 

He groans, holding his busted face in his paws and wondering why in the Hell he always got so _stupid_ at night. Hell, maybe he was this reckless all of the time. Certainly didn't help that his midnight hours were spent lusting over a guy that probably couldn't even conceptualize his sick ways of getting off if he wanted to.

Not that he'd _ever_ want to.

Swallowing down the bitter taste of self-resentment in his mouth, he steadies himself with his back pressed to the wall. Bile rises in the back of his throat, moreso from the bitter thought of his best friend than anything else, and he brushes the dirt from his fur and seriously hopes that whatever's dried on the fur of his stomach ain't what he thinks it is. He can feel his face burn at the thought that he's got just about _every_ right now to be arrested for public indecency. 

He ain't exactly a shameful guy, but cumming on himself in the middle of the street ain't something he thinks his fragile pride can stand.

Max steadies himself on the rough, cold brick underneath his hands, dizziness spinning his head as he tries to push down an ever-budding ache and the seedy implications of such. He wipes at his nose, cursing at the blood still steadily dripping from it and staining his fur a bitter scarlet, the taste of metal pungent on his tongue when he begrudgingly starts his trek back to the office. As long as he manages to make it back in time for him to cover up this whole mess, chalk it up to a half-witted excuse, then everything will be just as fine as it's always been. Sam doesn't have to know a thing, and he can simply pretend that nothing ever happened.

He almost doesn't notice it, almost just chalks it up to the dull ringing in his ears when his phone starts to buzz, ringing it's shrill tone and displaying a name that has him cursing out to an empty street. " _Fuck_!" He cries out, the whole affair of the night suddenly too much for him to stand. He feels his face go hot and eyes bleary with something he refuses to believe is tears when he smashes the thing onto the ground with the force of an entire night's worth of frustration. It shatters on the concrete below, and he screams again, before the angry sound delves into something more broken and distressed. He buries his face in his hands, a choked little sob making it's way out of him. He's tired, more exhausted than he's ever been in his entire life, and it only makes him cry harder. 

What a fucking _mess_. 

He draws in a few gasping, hiccupping breaths, chest aching with the night's events and the lack of oxygen as he desperately tries to pull himself together. He's so screwed, and going home right now is the last thing he wants to do. He doesn't think he could face Sam like this, especially not after... _that_.

God, he needs a drink.

**Author's Note:**

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